


More Bright than Of the Midday Sun

by rhia474



Series: Herald and Lion [9]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adorkable, Awkward Conversations, F/M, Humor, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Shyness, Slow Burn, are there more tags for adorkable?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-09 22:21:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4366394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhia474/pseuds/rhia474
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I completely understand your predicament, Commander. After all, as you see, I am also indulging my advisors by wearing this.” She pauses and Cullen practically feels the weight of her stare. It’s not exactly uncomfortable. On the contrary. He fights the slow, sweet heat starting to coil low in his belly and concentrates on breathing evenly.<br/><i>Maker’s Breath. Stop looking at me that way. I could do without false hopes and dreams that can never be for just one evening. </i></p><p> </p><p>Satinalia's feast comes to Skyhold, various members of the Inner Circle make others don funny costumes, there is copious amount of alcohol and dancing... No wonder a certain Commander of the Inquisition's armies inevitably puts his foot in his mouth. Yes, shenanigans and hijinks ensue; also, Jim almost gets murdered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Bright than Of the Midday Sun

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Apologies for the longer than usual wait—vacation time meant I had no real computer access and typing out on a small tablet was not particularly appealing. Partially as a consequence of that, though, this is going to be a bit longer than usual. And because Hawke for some reason keeps inserting herself into this story a quite lot more than I originally planned. There were also clearly off-screen shenanigans by members of the Inner Circle involved to make everything in this piece happen; the outtakes of said shenanigans and hijinks might eventually make it into a separate story.**

 

 _Upon that misty night_  
_In secrecy, beyond such mortal sight_  
_Without a guide or light_  
_Than that which burned so deeply in my heart_  
_That fire t'was led me on_  
_And shone more bright than of the midday sun_  
_To where he waited still_  
_It was a place where no one else could come_

_\--Loreena McKennitt, Dark Night of the Soul (original, St. John of the Cross)_

 

“Come on, Cullen, it will be fun, I promise!” Leliana insists, tugging on his arm with a smile that is almost, but not quite, genuine. One never knows with the spymaster, although right now she looks like she is actually _enjoying_ herself, if that tiny giggle at the end of her sentences is to be believed. “It’s not that no one will know who you are…”

“Or who _we_ are…” Josephine injects, almost, but not quite giggling herself. Cullen lifts an eyebrow. Were these two starting the celebrations a bit too early? He detects a slightly bitter odor in the air around both of them he cannot quite place. “The point is, like Lia says, to have fun. And masks at Satinalia are fun. Definitely.”

“Fun.” He sighs, more for the sake of his image as the stern commander of their forces than actual exacerbation. The mood of Satinalia is quite infectious, and in the past few months they had such little reason to really just let go and relax. He understands very well; he just finds it difficult to get in the same frame of mind.

It does not, however, hurt to try.

“It is, _perhaps_ , a possibility.” He allows himself a small grin. They are, after all, quite adorable, decked out as they are in what he guesses their traditional finery: Josie in Antivan silks and Leliana in Orlesian brocade. Both properly dignified as befitting their station, but the colors are deep and rich, enhanced by slashes and ribbons and embroidery.

In short, they look like the fine proper ladies they are, very familiar with the more upper-class traditions of Satinalia, in the exact way he is not.

“There were no masks in Honnleath.” Cullen says softly, dragging his finger around the gilding on the _thing_ that the spymaster placed on his desk. He has to admit that it’s an impressive work of art. _Probably way too heavy, though_. “Small village, pretty much everyone knew everyone. It would have been pointless, even if we could have afforded it.”

“Ah.” Leliana nods. “And naturally, Kinloch Hold would have had absolutely no foolishness of mask-wearing mages cavorting on the corridors, yes?” She has been there; she walked those corridors with the Hero of Ferelden. She remembers.

“Exactly,” Cullen says, momentarily distracted by memories, and he feels Leliana’s hand on his arm for a second, squeezing.

“You’re not there anymore,” she says quietly so even Josephine can’t hear her, dropping her guise for a second, eyes shining with sympathy. “There, or in Kirkwall. We are the Inquisition, and it will be all right to… relax a bit, Cullen. I promise.”

She never actually thanked her for his intervention with the Inquisitor the other day regarding Roxanne’s parents. Not with words; the former bard and Left Hand of the Divine would never do something as simplistic and straightforward as that. But there were signs.  More ravens assigned to the forward deployed troops. The requests for scouts in the Western Approach and the Emerald Graves were upgraded to full platoons as opposed to single detached members of the spymaster’s forces. The cessation of discussion about his hair over the war table meetings. If Cullen had to be brutally honest with himself, he perhaps appreciated that one the most because admitting to the use of hair wax even to only to those three women present at the War Council would have been rather uncomfortable.

And now this.

“Fun, huh?” He picks up the mask and weighs it in his hand. “And I expect _this_ will help me with that. It’s… lighter than I expected.”

From his chair, Adjutant Felix, the large orange tabby that decided to adopt him when they arrived to Skyhold all those months ago, watches them with deep distrust, his tail swishing.

“It’s mostly leather, paper paste and gilding, Cullen.” Josephine smiles, crooks a finger at the cat and coos. “And what do _we_ think? Is it suitably gowgeous?”

Felix narrows his eyes and hisses, scarred ears flattening against his head slightly.

“Does not like babytalk,” Cullen says somewhat apologetically and snaps his fingers at the cat. “Stop that, you. The lady just asked for your opinion.”

Felix flicks his tail, vaguely interested, but not the least intimidated, and starts washing.

“Well. At least he didn’t decide to mark his territory this time,” Leliana says drily, remembering that incident in the War Room a few weeks ago and Cullen winces slightly. “Small favors, no?” She waves a hand at the pile of clothes at his desk and she’s all business-like again. “Now: how do _you_ like the outfit?”

“Exactly as an Orlesian would imagine Fereldan clothes of the past.” Cullen’s response is instinctual, and he can see on both of their faces that it was slightly insulting. “The ah… workmanship is exquisite, though,” he adds hastily, and tries the grin again, hoping it might soothe the sting. He is very grateful that he’s not in charge of diplomatic relations, and he prays that he never has to attend any important state functions anywhere in any capability. Also, he’s happy that these two, somehow, in the past months, decided to become his friends. “And, um, at least it’s not a full-on silver armor suit.”

“We felt that would have been too much of a giveaway,” Leliana says, eyes softening and she pats his shoulder reassuringly. “You’ll look magnificent in brigandine, plaid wool and fur just as well. Practically casual,” she adds, with that giggle in her voice again.

“Not funny, _Sister_. You absolutely owe me a favor after tonight.” Cullen says darkly, lifting the brigandine with its silver-and-fur accents and stares at the heavy wool tassets attached to it in muted plaid.

 _Probably representing cloth-covered steel, but without the steel—this is a costume, after all. Absolutely impractical and ridiculous, of course, but_ …

“On the other hand, I probably will be the only person who is not freezing cold in the Great Hall,” he adds, with some satisfaction, looking at the two women and lifting an eyebrow. “Well: can I please have some privacy to put all of this on? Or do you need to stay and make sure my pants fit…?”

“Oh.” Josephine blushes. “No. Of course. We trust you. Um.” She links her arm into Leliana’s. “We shall… meet you later, then. In the Great Hall. Soon.”

Leliana chuckles.

“Thanks for this, Cullen,” she says enigmatically: he’s not sure if she means the fact that he’s willing to dress up for tonight, or flustering Josephine? “And don’t worry. I know I owe you that report on the intelligence regarding the Venatori movements in the Nazaire Pass. Despite the holiday,” she dimples. “The advisors’ work is never done: I’ll find a way to get it to you as soon as the copying is done. I have a _most_ unfortunate clerk and a runner on duty tonight so Maker wills it you’ll get it by morning.”

Cullen doesn’t ask what those poor souls did that ended them on copying duty on a feastday: he has a few soldiers amongst those guarding the walls today who earned that dubious distinction as well and who should be grateful they didn’t end on latrine duty or worse. He bows slightly as the two women exit his office, and there he remains, facing the stack of clothes and that rather silly half-mask on his desk.

He stares for a few seconds, gathering courage almost as if before battle.

“Come on, Rutherford,” he mutters to himself, and starts on his pauldrons. “You _can_ do this.”

There is a throaty almost-cough from his chair: Felix is stretching, looking at the clothes with renewed interest, and he can almost see his thoughts.

“Don’t. Even. Think. About. It.” Cullen says measuredly between his teeth, deepening his voice almost to a growl. “Fereldans are supposed to smell like wet dogs. Not like cat piss.” He pauses, tilts his head to the side. “Maybe _after_ Satinalia.”

Felix seems to be satisfied with that offer, and sits back on his haunches, continuing his fastidious cleaning ritual.

“Yes, I’m perfectly fine, thank you,” Cullen mutters while yanking off various parts of armor and clothing, slowly but inexorably changing into a rather romanticized version of what King Calenhad’s historical outfit _sans_ silver gleaming and with a lot of leather and plaid wool would have looked like. “Why do you ask?” _I‘m apparently attending a festival originally dedicated to a Tevinter god, but now mainly the feast of eating, drinking and wearing awful costumes. Did I mention drinking and eating a lot?_

By now it’s almost a habit, this almost-compulsive talking whenever the feline decides to accompany him. Cullen supposes it’s another way for his mind to cope with the pressures of his job and the effects of withdrawal: seeing the animal as a companion. When he mentioned it to Solas during one of their conversations about the progress of his health, the elf, with one of his enigmatic smiles, agreed.

_“You were a reinforcer of reality as a Templar, Commander,” Solas said. “It stands to reason that now, no longer being one, you dare to venture outside of the realm of sane and safe.” He shrugged. “Talking to animals that choose us freely…I see no harm in that at all.” He patted his shoulder. “I would, however, like to see you immediately should he talk back.”_

He was slightly bothered by that ‘reinforcer of reality’ comment, but upon reflecting on it, he had to admit that, as usual, the elf was eerily precise with his definitions. Negating magic, the way Templars used their lyrium-augmented abilities was, essentially, to deny the powers of the Fade and thus, nonreality.

_I refuse to entertain the notion, however, that I somehow wish to let my hair down by treating a cranky and incontinent tomcat as a human. However much my mind might want to overcompensate for not being a Templar any more._

_Or however much an apostate elven mage wishes to confuse you about you state of mind,_ the old Cullen who still sort of raises his ugly head inside of him whispers. He’s not a frequent visitor these days, but sometimes, when the night is quiet and there’s no one around, he looks at him disapprovingly with the self-righteousness of a twenty-year old and shakes his head. _Associating with known apostates, Qunari heathens and Tevene heretics, let alone something that might be a demon made manifest, and deciding to form an organization that is knowingly disassociates itself from the Chantry and all that it stands for? And you think you’re still sane?_

_Not to mention those dreams and forbidden thoughts you harbor regarding the leader of said organization._

 “Oh, sod this,” he says, more to himself then to Felix, finishes the last clasp of his brigandine, grabs the cloak that is muted plaid with a short fur cape attached to it (no doubt this is Leliana’s gentle jab at his bearskin cloak along with that ridiculous Lion of Ferelden moniker even his troops are calling him by now), pulls the mask over his face with one determined motion and waves to Felix who glares balefully at him from his own chair.

“When I’m done with this getup, you shall have it for a bed, ser. On my word.”

Skyhold is all but buzzing with the excitement of a feastday; it is not dark yet but the torches are already lit on the battlements, and there are small lamps hung on ropes lining the path leading to the central keep. Josephine worked on this for a long time: musicians were hired, audited by Maryden, a long list of food and drink items was handed to Ser Morris, the quartermaster, there were almost-shouting matches with Cook regarding extra help, Vivienne insisted on redoing most of the drapes and curtains in the hall just for this one day…

Cullen had his own share of headaches too figuring out the guard rotations for today, as, naturally, everyone wanted to participate in the Satinalia festivities but no one in particular wanted drunken soldiers on duty, least of all their Commander. The solution was suggested by, of all people, The Iron Bull.

_“Hey, why not to offer an extra day’s pay for those who swear not to drink tonight?” he said and winked at Cullen. “That way, they can get drunk tomorrow when they are off shift, and we will all be having fun for a second day punching their sorry asses out when they get cocky. Try for a good mix of old veterans and some of the new blood, along with a couple of your miscreants as a punishment, of course. They’ll keep each other in line, watching like the hawk for anything they can lord over the other group. You know: professional jealousy, group dynamics, and all that fancy terminology I can’t possibly understand.”_

_Damned Ben-Hassrath was, of course right,_ Cullen thinks now, slowly walking across the courtyard and up the stairs, and observing the soldiers on the walls standing perfectly at attention as he passes by. _Both about those on watch tonight checking each other like hawks, and about people still constantly underestimating the hulking Qunari’s intelligence._ He quietly swears not to do the latter ever again, and makes a mental note of talking to Leliana as soon as possible to…

His thoughts fall apart, stuttering, failing, useless. They jumble and tangle with little flashes inside his skull, fragmented and almost painfully incomplete, swirling around that tall, proud, straight-backed and utterly breathtaking figure swathed in crimson, burgundy, white and silver, a riotously harmonious contradiction of icy winter pearls, silken cording, rich fiery velvets, brocades, and embroidery.

_Of course they put the Inquisitor in costume, too._

 “And I promise there will be no chair-throwing this time, Your Worship,” he hears Lieutenant Aclassi’s voice as he bends over the Inquisitor’s hand, standing at the wide open doors of the Great Hall. “I’ve talked to Grim about that.”

“Hmmm.” Cullen watches and has to remember to breathe as Roxanne tilts her head to a side, a pensive expression on her face looking at the mercenaries in front of her. “And if I ask you _very_ nicely at some point to create a diversion so I can slip out?” she asks slowly.

The Charger chuckles and bows again.

“As ever, we are at your service, Your Worship,” he says. “Happy Satinalia.”

“And to you, Lieutenant.” Roxanne executes a perfect curtsy, no doubt, learned as a child of a noble household. “Your gifts were delivered and shall await you at your lodgings; I trust they will serve you well.” She waves a hand towards the Hall. “Now, please go in and enjoy yourselves. I am told the liquor table is exceptional.”

“Thank you, Your Worship.” Aclassi makes a happy sound. “We helped hauling in some of those casks, so don’t mind if we do.”

He and the others with him from the Chargers’ officer cadre disappear through the open doors, and Cullen is now suddenly under the scrutiny of a pair of Fade-green eyes, shining brightly under the delicate mask she’s wearing.

“So that is what Josie was so giggly about this morning,” she says drily, and Cullen swallows again, fighting the urge to rub the old wound at the back of his neck. “Where does she _find_ these things?”

“I…ah, have no idea, honestly,” he answers, and hopes that his bow hides the blush creeping up on his cheeks. “I suspect she has a tailor in Val Royeaux? I mean, it’s pretty awful, I know, but…”

“But it _is_ Satinalia,” Roxanne says and pats her skirt as an explanation. “I completely understand your predicament, Commander. After all, as you see, I am also indulging my advisors by wearing _this_.” She pauses and Cullen practically feels the weight of her stare. It’s not exactly uncomfortable. On the contrary. He fights the slow, sweet heat starting to coil low in his belly and concentrates on breathing evenly.

_Maker’s Breath. Stop looking at me that way. I could do without false hopes and dreams that can never be for just one evening._

“Actually, you _are_ wearing it rather well.” Another pause. “It is supposed to be a horribly romanticized version of early Calenhad, I assume?”

“I think so,” Cullen answers cautiously. “I’m highly suspicious about the amount of plaid, but…”

“Yes, well, at least you did not have to add an underdress to deal with the décolletage,” Roxanne says almost absentmindedly, pointing at her chest, and Cullen tries very, _very_ hard not to stare. “I am all for the good cheer of Satinalia, but not if it makes me either catch a cold or have certain… parts fall out. I doubt Queen Asha Campana, who supposedly this costume represents, would have, anyway.”

 _Andraste save me._ Cullen’s thoughts stutter again, and his heart speeds up as he realizes that if, indeed, Roxanne was not wearing the high-necked undergown in pale cream, the crimson-and-gold dress’ bodice would absolutely expose a scandalous amount of…

“I’m not quite sure how…” Cullen cuts himself off mid-sentence, because there is just _no way_ he could even start thinking about _that_ without…

“Oh.” Roxanne blushes suddenly. “Maker, I am _sorry_ , I did not mean to…” She makes a little half-laughing sound, accompanied by that nose-scrunching of hers. “Well.” She takes a deep breath. “My apologies if I made you uncomfortable, Commander.”

_I’m not staring. I’m not staring._

“It’s quite all right, Inquisitor.” There are others behind him, laughing and whispering and he shamelessly uses that as an escape route. “If you’ll excuse me, however…”

“Indeed; it seems I am holding you up, Commander.” Roxanne goes all formal again. Her gloved hand is cool in his as he bows over it, formally, to hide his embarrassment.

“Maybe later…?” he hears her whisper, only to his ears as he straightens, and he sees a tiny, almost-tremulous smile in the corner of her mouth. “I can apologize better that way…?”

“Oh.” That’s all he can say first, because suddenly several things become clear to him with dizzying speed. One: she feels terribly alone right now, put out on display as it were, becoming a symbol for all those who line up behind him, not merely their people from Skyhold, but the noble guests from all corners of Thedas. Two: Josephine turned Satinalia into yet another of her diplomatic maneuvers, skillful but cold-headed, flawlessly using Roxanne’s desire to be here for the traditional gift-giving season and perhaps taking her mind off a bit from her family’s situation. Three: she is relaxed enough in his company that she felt it all right to make that comment about her dress. _Roxanne_ , the always proper, always straight-laced Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste…who lately seemed to be much more…closer to earth, for lack of a better expression.

And this definitely does not make dreaming about what could never be easier, of course.

“I… of course, Inquisitor. I shall be…mingling, then,” he says cautiously as he steps aside. And oh, as he does so, his eyes catch that slight dip of the head and slow curling of lips just as she turns to greet her next guest, and the sweet, coiling heat is back at the pit of his stomach the way he hasn’t felt it since back in Kinloch Hold Solona Amell first smiled at him the same way.

_I’m lost and done for._

He does not quite know what’s in the tankard that he grabs from the board set up at the side of the Hall, but by the time he sits down at the table where Varric and The Iron Bull hailed him from, he thinks his heartbeat slowed down reasonably enough to actually investigate it.

“Shit, Cullen,” says the Bull, sniffing as he eyes his drink. “I’ve never figured you to someone favoring Chasind Sack Mead, but that just goes to show you I’m out of practice, I guess.”

“Why?” Varric leans forward, as Cullen is busy trying to breathe after that sip, because, _Maker_ , this tastes like nothing he had before. Sweet and warm and aromatic, like apple blossoms on a sunny day, with a bitter aftertaste that hits his head like a warhammer. “Author wants to know for posterity: what _did_ you figure he’d drink? Mackay’s Single Malt?”

“Nah, that’d be trite.” Bull shrugs and Cullen sees, through the haze of tears that rose in his eyes, that he also _winks_. “Flames of Our Lady, I think.”

“’She is with us’!” Varric makes little quotation marks in the air with his fingers and laughs. “Indeed. This round is clearly yours, qunari.”

“I’m right here, you know,” Cullen says mildly, resolute that he shall not blush and takes another sip, a slightly larger one, because this is quite nice, actually. He _absolutely_ caught the insinuation in that exchange even though they were, on the surface, merely discussing a really potent and rare wine, and he’s mildly surprised that he’s not more incensed over it. “Would consider it a courtesy if you stopped discussing me as if I was somewhere else.” He stares into the drink for a second before another sip that he turns around in his mouth to fully appreciate the aroma of happiness mingled with the bizarrely melancholy aftertaste of loss. “Which I would perchance like to.”

The captain of the Chargers claps a great hand on his shoulder.

“I bet you would,” he says slowly, and Varric snickers. “But you had that mead, so I doubt you’d be going anywhere soon.”

Cullen considers while finishing the contents of his tankard and listens to the music spilling over the Hall from the elevated balcony that normally Vivienne’s domain. It’s _true_ that there’s pleasant warmth in his chest that continues to spread in his body, but…

“Ah. There it is,” Varric says, watching his face.

“What?” he hears himself say, with some indignation, but strangely sounding as if he’s under a great blanket of wool for some reason. ‘What _is_ there?”

“The Chasind smile, my friend. On your face.” Varric shakes his head. “At least that’s what it was called in Kirkwall’s _Hanged Man_. Never really saw a live Chasind in my life, so can’t tell how they do it, but it’s definitely the same grin I’ve seen on anyone’s face who tried that mead. Slightly delirious, very happy, for about ten heartbeats. Then the sadness hits.” He considers. “I don’t believe you the type that cries into his drink recalling happier times, but that’s the usual response. It’d be interesting to see yours. You know, for research purposes.”

“Yep,” The Iron Bull nods. “It’s a beautiful thing, Chasind Sack Mead, but there’s a reason why it’s so rare.” He tilts his great head to the side for a second, then kicks his chair back and stands. “Say, that actually gives me an idea.” He looks around. “Varric, if you don’t mind keeping an eye on our general here, I’ll see if I can get the Boss interested in a drink.”

“I like the way you think, Tiny,” Varric says, after some respectable silence. “Actually, strike that. I’m _terrified_ of the way you think.”

“As you well should, master dwarf.” The qunari grins and inclines his great horned head. “As you well should.”

As he watches The Iron Bull slowly weaving his way amongst the crowd towards the doors, Cullen realizes that he should be at least _slightly_ mortified by how strongly he reacted to the mead: ale and wine is what he’s mostly familiar with, but even those he consumed always in moderation. If he has to be completely honest with himself, drowning his issues in alcohol never even occurred to him. Replacing one addiction with another… no. Now, after sipping the golden, sweet and deceptively smooth drink in his tankard, however, he can definitely see the allure of it.

And _that_ , if anything else, brings him out sharply from the cloud of happiness that Varric so astutely described. He inhales and sits up straight, catching the dwarf’s surprised intake of breath.

“Curly, you’re full of surprises,” he says, with an amused chuckle. “I’ve never seen anyone practically _sober_ themselves in a few heartbeats. Is that a Templar trick?”

“I’m apparently a ‘reinforcer of reality’, Varric,” Cullen says, putting the tankard down with a decisive click. “Or at least I have been. Solas says so.”

“And that explains everything, of course,” Varric nods. “I swear when once this shit is over and I finally write that book about the Inquisition, I’ll need to include footnotes half a page long just to decipher what Chuckles says on a regular basis. Him and the Kid. No one else I know can talk like knights jump on a chessboard.”

‘That’s…” Cullen starts to say, then his mind catches up to what actually was said and he trails off. “That’s…actually a pretty accurate description,” he mumbles, craning his neck towards where the Bull disappeared in the crowd of people now filling a significant amount of the Great Hall.

_Where are they? And what was that remark about giving her a drink, and…_

_Oh._

_There._ Above the heads of two masked and costumed Orlesians he spies the horns of the Qunari mercenary, and a flash of brilliant crimson… then the throng of Satinalia parts and he sees the Inquisitor stride forward, golden goblet in her hand, flanked by her flame-haired and raven-locked advisors.

They are absolutely gorgeous like that: all smiles and colors and sinuous grace and power swathed in silks and brocades. Both Leliana and Josephine are actually smiling, looking at Roxanne expectantly as she raises her goblet and addresses the crowd.

“I have been reminded by the good captain here,” she starts, gracefully inclining her head towards the qunari, who in turn produces a perfect Orlesian style bow to some surprised chuckles, “that this is Satinalia, and I have not had a drop of alcohol yet.” She shrugs. “He seems to think I need to set an example for some reason.” Chuckles and cheering in the back. Cullen blinks.

Is she… _joking_ again?

“I am sure everyone expects me to give a speech,” she continues, and yes, that smile in the corner of her mouth is definitely mischievous. _Maker_ , _but she is breathtaking_ , Cullen thinks. “I, however, would much rather you enjoyed the festivities than listen to me prattle on about comparisons between the Inquisition and historical examples from, oh say, the Exalted Age—as some of you no doubt might have expected me to do.” She pauses, looks around, and Cullen practically can feel her gaze finally resting on his face. He resists the overwhelming urge of closing his eyes and just bask in the warmth of it.

 “And so…” She continues, her voice catching a little bit, but her smile widening, “you do not need me to say anything else than this, and note that this is directly from your Inquisitor, so feel free to treat it as an order…”  She opens her arms wide and bows gracefully, eyes still on him. “Eat, drink and be merry! Happy Satinalia!”

“Oh yeah!” The Iron Bull’s voice booms in her wake. “Well, you’ve heard the Inquisitor: what’re you waiting for, people?”

Laughter, cries of toasting and boasting fill the air and everyone gathers around Roxanne again, blocking her from his sight.

“Oh damn.” Varric says, and downs his drink in one gulp. “Now I owe three sovereigns to Sparkler.”

“I’m…sorry?” Cullen blinks. He’s still slightly dazed from Roxanne’s gaze bearing into his so openly and tries very hard not to hope against all hope what he thought he saw in it.

“Dorian said he could convince her to drop the ice princess act for just a _little_ bit.” Varric stares into his cup wistfully. “Damned Tevene actually did it…Of course now I need to know if he and Tiny conspired on this whole thing.” He pushes to his feet. “And how in the Fade he managed it, of course. Excuse me, Curly, but duty calls.”

“Duty?” Cullen isn’t sure this would qualify as any kind of duty in his books, but this evening is…different from what he’s expected it to be already.

“The duty of an author and faithful chronicler of great deeds.” Varric pats his shoulder. “You’ll understand later.” He grabs his tankard and sweeps away in that slightly ambling gait only Varric can use for sweeping, the tails of his Dwarven greatcoat billowing up behind him.

“Left all high and dry, huh?” He didn’t hear Hawke sneak up on him, but of course she was always able to do that. He suspects it is that way because he never perceived her as a threat. “That’s so… _Varric_. Well, allow me to assist you in complying with your great leader’s orders.” She plunks a plate and a tankard down in front of him and sits. “I can supply requisites for the ‘eat and drink’ part, but the rest is up to you.” Her cool fingers touch his face, mouth turning down at the corners, frowning slightly. Her breath is strongly perfumed by the Starkhaven _uisce_ she favors, and Cullen realizes with a slight start that his friend is quite drunk already. “Speaking about that: you look terribly sad, honeychild. What’s up?”

 _I’m hallucinating that the love of my life is returning my feelings and it makes me want to hide in my office and seriously consider taking up drinking,_ Cullen almost finds himself saying, because this is Hawke, and the two of them by now practically have no secrets from each other. There is, however, no need to even open his mouth, he finds out the next moment.

“Ah.” Hawke lets out a long sigh and stretches her legs under the table. While she’s wearing a half-mask like everyone else in the Hall, the doublet and hose are an understated blue, with some modest gold decoration here and there. Cullen briefly wonders whether Josephine tried to browbeat the Champion of Kirkwall into wearing a costume. _She probably did_ , he decides, _but the ensuing fireworks most likely weren’t pretty. Or something Josephine ever would talk about_. “Say nothing, my majestic lion. Matters of the heart, the sad longing of love that can never be, all that stuff?” Her eyes narrow. “I _so_ do hope you are not planning on… _pining away_ in a corner all night? _”_

 _“Hawke.”_ Cullen sighs, slightly scandalized, more by the fact that she so accurately put her finger on his state of mind even while drunk than by _what_ exactly she said. “I’m not…I would never… what kind of question is that, anyway?”

“Liar,” she says softly and pokes him between the ribs, grinning. “Sweet, adorable, lovely liar, you. Has it even occurred to you that this being Satinalia, it would be the absolutely perfect opportunity to, ah, _approach_ her?” She pokes him again, a bit more insistently, whispering. “There’s _dancing_ going on, man! Everyone’s letting down their hair, so to speak…even _Josephine_. I mean, look, seriously, she’s actually laughing at something there Blackwall told her!”

Cullen risks a quick glance. He really wants to keep both of his eyes on Hawke because he knows from experience that when she’s in her cups her pokes are usually followed by biceps squeezes and full-on hugs. He’s not quite sure he’s ready for that in the full view of Skyhold: while he knows that she means nothing by it, he still remembers the absolute mortification he felt when it happened first, back in Kirkwall.

 _On the other hand, it’s better if she’s doing it to me than to, say, to The Iron Bull._ He sighs inwardly as he spots what she was talking about, and he has to acknowledge that Josephine, indeed,   _does_ look relaxed, shaking her head at something the normally so dour Warden is saying. She is leaning close to listen, eyes shining and lightly rests a hand on his arm.

“So, fearless general of armies who can wear plaid in public and get away with it,” Hawke drawls, taking a sip from her drink and grinning. Cullen is rather sure this will be followed up by something that make him either blush or stammer in outrage. “Tell me true: what is it that prevents you from asking her for a dance? Or telling her how you feel?”

“Hawke!” _Yes, indeed_. “This is absolutely not the time and place…”

“Dear Maker,” Hawke sighs. “You really _are_ daft, my lion. This _is_ absolutely the time and the place, and that’s what I’m trying to tell you, except I’m unfortunately a wee bit drunk. Seeing you tearing yourself apart because…” She chuffs impatiently. “Damn it, I’m done being all coy and ladylike about this,” she mutters ( _as if she was ever coy and ladylike about anything_ , it goes through Cullen’s mind dimly), then grabs his arm again and whispers, so close that her hair brushes his face: “Why in the Fade you’re thinking she’s not returning your feelings?”

He never ran from a hard fight, but this…he has to use every inch of his self-discipline still remaining from his Templar days not to either kick his chair back and leave or punch his best friend in the face.

“What, pray tell,” he starts after a moment of tense silence, his voice slightly trembling as he tries to keep the rage that bubbles up from deep inside at bay, “gives you the right to pry into my personal life, let alone trying to dictate what I do with it?” He feels blazing hot as he straightens up and looks down at Hawke. “Being my friend does _not_ give you the right of incessant poking and nagging, absolutely disregarding my repeated requests for preserving my privacy or that of someone I hold in the highest regard. You…”

“Don’t worry, Cullen.” Hawke stands up, and the smile in the corner of her mouth is exactly the one she wore right before that last battle in the Gallows courtyard. “I cease my prating. I probably have gone the wrong way about this, my usual pigheaded way, and for that I apologize. I didn’t think this was…damnation.” She bites her lip.  “I just want something to go right for people I care about once, is all,” she whispers. “Just this sodding once…” She straightens and cracks her neck side-to-side like she used to do before battle. “Clearly, instead all I do is causing harm like a drunken bully. I…”

“Marian.” Using her first name stops her cold from wanting to just walk away, the way she clearly was planning to. “Just… stop it and listen, please.” He channels some of his commanding voice into what he says now. “Look: you walked right back into my life after a rather dramatic change on both of our parts, and now expect me to just allow you to direct it, because you _clearly_ know better regarding affairs of the heart.” He lifts his hand, stopping her from saying anything. “You _do_ have the right to call me out on my bullshit, we established that a while back; but I also do reserve the right to let you know when you’re going too far, remember?” She nods, still biting her lip, looking about ten years younger. “What you do _not_ have the right to, however, is get all passive-aggressive on me when we have a disagreement.”

“Maker, you sound just like Fenris just now,” she whispers. Cullen’s heart wrenches with an almost physical shock as he realizes that she misses her husband, worries about his safety on this latest, crucially important mission…that she worries about the news about the Wardens, Corypheus’ plans for them, Corypheus himself, the nightmare she thought she defeated once and who returned even stronger and free… and he is shaken by most of all by the knowledge that, ultimately, she holds herself responsible for the ex-Magister and would-be-god being on the loose again on Thedas.

“Well.” He exhales rather forcefully and pats the chair next to him. All those things are matters that are not exactly something for discussion on this night: but now that he can clearly see what’s eating at Marian Hawke’s heart, he is resolved to have this conversation sooner than later. He owes it to her, at least until Fenris gets here. “I’m honored to be compared to your broody elf, my lady. Will you sit with me a little while longer, while I gather my courage to request a dance from you?”

“From _me_?” Hawke makes a little laughing sound, shakes her head, but obeys and takes the offered chair. “Darling man, you are mighty insufferable.” Her vulnerability is almost entirely gone; she sniffles once as she looks at him. “The fact that you are gorgeous won’t save you, you know?”

“Of course.” Cullen nods: they understand the words which are not spoken, her wordless apology and his answer. “It’s my hair, isn’t it?”

“Andraste’s tits, Cullen!” Hawke swears, but she is smiling. “Must you find out all my secrets?”

“You already know most of mine,” Cullen says quietly, and sees Hawke sway a bit.

“You’re slaying me, you idiot,” she says, eyes shiny again: the fact that she swings so wildly between these extreme emotions alone should tell Cullen just how fragile she is. It occurs to him that it’s not just Roxanne who is in need of help regarding battlefield stress and trauma. “I really don’t want this feast be famous for the Champion of Kirkwall breaking down bawling in the middle of it all.”

“Well, we can’t have that, my lady Hawke, can we?” Cullen stands up and hopes he remembers the correct form of bow. “I believe this is the time that I request the honor of a dance from you—I believe I remember the steps of this one?”

“It’s a Fereldan dance, you lucky dog.” Hawke grins and places her hand in his. “I should hope so.”

 _The Orlesian guests are probably having a field day with this._ Cullen can almost feel their disapproval drilling a hole in his back. _Of course_ , the Ferelden-born Commander will engage in one of their uncouth barbarian dances arm-in-arm with the similarly Ferelden-born upstart ex-Viscountess of Kirkwall. He can almost swear he can hear disdainful sniffles in the crowd. Luckily enough, they are not alone in joining the fray: this is not a complicated dance, requiring more stamina than finesse, and therefore there are quite a number of Inquisition members in the line as it twirls and snakes around the Great Hall’s pillars and tables. The winding double line is full of giggles, laughter and stumbles, of course, as a lot of the guests are even more in their cups than his dancing partner. Cullen feels his mouth twisting to a grin watching Hawke twirl and link her arm into his: she was right, he needs this. Both of them do, actually and as this dance practically brings his childhood back from before he even joined the Order, his steps lighten and he feels the years fall off his shoulder for the first time in a long while.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Hawke shouts at him above the din of dozens of thudding feet, laughing mouths and the sound of drums, violins, flutes and pipes as she kicks up her feet high, her hair flying around her face. They link their arms and spin, to the left and to the right. “There you go!” she laughs, and Cullen actually whoops as his boots hit the ground after a full turn, along with several other men in the line. It makes him remember that this is actually supposed to be like this…

Also that this is the part where everyone moves down and grabs another partner…

“And…change!” he hears the all too familiar yell of The Iron Bull on his left and as he spins again and stretches out his right arm to link with the next partner in the line, left hand on his hip, head up high and proud as the dance prescribes, he feels the cool fingers of Roxanne Trevelyan in his hand, and her Fade-green eyes smile into his from under a slightly disheveled mess of snow-white hair.

“Commander!” She also has to raise her voice over the general loudness of the room, but her curtsy as they start the new set of the dance is perfect and poised. His reflexes take over and he follows his muscle memory as he swallows down the swarm of emotions assaulting him, along with a growing certainty.

_I’m going to kill Hawke. Also, the next sparring match with the Bull will be quite possibly bloody._

“I did not realize you danced!”  Roxanne continues, and there is no denying that her smile is pleased. That little warm spark in the pit of his stomach roars to life again as she steps closer and her scent, honeyed almonds spiced with lavender and orange blossom, invades his nose.

“Um…nothing complicated like an Orlesian _gavotte_ or _volte_ , but Fereldan contradances should be about my level,” he answers honestly, and finds that he can’t contain the grin spreading on his face. “I hope I can keep up…”

“Oh, you are doing absolutely fine,” She assures him, as they turn and duck under the uplifted hands of others as the set progresses. “Much better than Bull, actually.”

“Praising me with faint praise, Inquisitor?” It comes out of his mouth before he can even think about what he says: _damnation_. “Ah, that is…”

“You just try and dance with someone over seven feet tall. Just once.” Roxanne glances at him with an amused glint in her eyes. “Without thinking that should he trod on your feet merely once you can say farewell to at least one toe.”

_Turn, jump, step, step, link arms and here we go again…_

“Was that a…joke, Inquisitor?” Cullen decides he might as well press his luck. _Just in case this is what I think it is._

_And while at it, Maker, I also would like a new sword and a pony for Satinalia._

“ _Oh, la_.” There is that pure Orlesian shrug of hers. “I am practically under orders from two of my advisors and several of my Inner Circle members to try and enjoy myself tonight. It is Satinalia, after all.”

“And uh… are you?” Yes, he continues to stick his neck out; it’s probably the lingering aftereffect of the Chasind Sack Mead, and has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that as the next movement of the dance dictates, he’s currently curving an arm around the Inquisitor’s waist as he twirls her around. “Enjoying yourself?”

“You know… right now I think I do.” Roxanne’s answer literally takes his breath away; her hand tightens around his… and she shakes her head in mock exasperation as suddenly the tune changes and everyone around them stops, forming a circle and starts clapping in rhythm to the music.

He forgot about this particular charming aspect of this dance. Everyone’s laughing: The Iron Bull and Hawke, of course (yes, there _will_ be reckoning, definitely), her face the same as it always was after a very successful night at the Hanged Man in Kirkwall (or, as Aveline Vallen was always fond of saying ‘like a cat that just swallowed a canary’). There’s Varric with Lieutenant Harding, and Rylen, his second-in-command with Ser Lysette leaning on him and grinning ear-to-ear, something he never thought he would see. Dorian Pavus, lifting an aristocratic eyebrow with a mock bow towards them, Leliana smiling next to him with almost the same expression on her face, as if to say ‘well, come _on_ …’; and yes, that’s Josephine with Blackwall, their hands almost but not quite touching.

“Well?” Roxanne says, head slightly tilted to the side. She is still smiling, but that tiny frown he knows so well by now, signaling her slight confusion, starts to appear between her brows. “Same steps in the solo, remember?”

“Oh. Maker. Right,” he mutters, almost stumbling across his boots as he steps closer and in the way her lips slightly part and her breath escapes her he yet again finds a reason to exist just a little bit longer.

At least until the dance is over and the music stops for real and she is still _there_ , in his arms, so close he could almost just bend his head and see for real if she really tastes of lavender honey the way he imagined in his dreams.

_In front of practically everyone in Skyhold. Brilliant, Rutherford._

“Oh, that was lovely!” Roxanne says breathlessly, an escaped wisp of her hair trailing across her left cheek over her half-mask, as they bow to each other and to the other dancers. She is almost as enthusiastic and pleased as she was when her new armor was delivered by Dagna and she field-tested it by asking Dorian to try and freeze _and_ then fireball her. “One of the reasons I always liked Satinalia: the dancing.” She links her arm to his. “Thank you: it is so rare these days that I can honestly just…” She makes that most unladylike snorting noise he first found jarring, but by now it’s just one of those quirks making her more precious to him than anything else on Thedas. “I apologize: Lia used the expression ‘letting my hair down’ when we talked just before the feast started and it just occurred to me that I actually never do that.” She pauses, and then adds, with her customary precision: “Neither figuratively nor metaphorically speaking.”

Cullen clears his throat, because imagining her hair tumbling down over her shoulders and the feel of his tresses as he buries his face in their waves is both inappropriate and wrought of danger.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” he says cautiously as they walk slowly to the side and he manages to steer her to a quieter corner of the Great Hall without bumping into anyone. He lets out a slight sigh of relief when they can both sit at a small table. “Probably not the best practice for that grand ball of the Empress at Halamshiral Josie and Lia are working so hard to prepare for, but…”

“Nonsense.” Roxanne waves imperiously. “Social occasions such as this are excellent for both making all of us more comfortable with more than the battlefield or our piles of paperwork, and, at the same time, to quote my friend Varric Tethras, ‘have fun’.” She scrunches up her nose, suddenly serious. “Well, pish, that sounded _way_ too pretentious again.”

Cullen wants to tell her that’s not true, that it made perfect sense to him, that even the way she tries to swear and fails miserably takes his breath away. That the only reason he even came to this feast today was because he knew just how much she was looking forward to it and that he really wanted to see her smile and shine and be the bright and beautiful lady of Skyhold he would give his life for any moment she asked.

That he loves her, by the Maker, he _loves_ her so, desperately, endlessly, with the broken heart, body and soul of an ex-Templar, with and despite of the fifteen years between them, and will do so until his dying breath, even if he knows it is hopeless.

“Cullen?” her hand on his arm shakes him out of his thoughts, as he realizes he drifted completely away into very dangerous territory. “Is everything all right?” Roxanne sounds concerned. “I apologize if I…” She stumbles over her words, a very rare occurrence, and there’s a slight blush on her cheeks“…if you do not feel well or if I keep you away from something… or someone, or if you would rather…” She takes a deep breath. “I do not wish to monopolize your time. If you would be elsewhere, I…”

“Maker’s Breath, no!” It comes out a little bit more forcefully than he wanted. “Where else I would rather be than here, with you?”

_Oh. Shit._

He sees her eyes widen and hears her sharply inhale.

“I’m sorry…” he mumbles, sudden and terrible embarrassment almost choking him with its ashen taste as he hangs his head to stare at the scratches on the wood of the table.

_There you go, Rutherford… you finally you did it. Mouth. Insert foot. So much._

“All _right_ ,” he hears the steady, decisive voice he knows so well from War Table discussions when an argument had to be ended once and for all. “Come on. We need to talk.”

“We…?” Cullen looks up, feeling his cheeks still aflame with shame at his outburst.

“Yes.” Roxanne stands, face determined and focused just as he’d seen her that day in Haven’s Chantry, when the fate of their fledgling Inquisition was hanging in the balance. “We. Alone. This is not the place.” She tilts her head towards the side door that hides one of the myriad corridors eventually leading to the battlements, and her expression is impenetrable and closed: her Inquisitor face. “It should be rather quiet up by the western tower with most of Skyhold celebrating so: follow me?”

She sweeps away, skirts swishing in her wake, crimson and blood-red, and Cullen cannot but follow, as if he were to go to his execution.

_This is the part where I receive the well-deserved lecture from our leader about inappropriate behavior, dangers of fraternization and infatuation with one’s superior. And I can’t blame anyone but myself for it._

He’s vaguely aware of the whispers and eyes that follow them as they leave, but all of that comes to him through a dull, lead-colored haze that leaves him numb and uncaring. The headache returns as an all-familiar friend from another life, throbbing insistently behind his temple in rhythm with his thoughts repeating ‘ _and I have no choice but accept the consequences of my own actions and respectfully tender my resignation’…_

“There was something you wished to discuss, Inquisitor?” he hears himself, surprised how even and calm his own voice is through that haze of the swirling ashes of his hopes and dreams. They somehow made it up to the battlements by the western tower, and Maker, he’s going to miss the view from here, especially at sunset. Or like now, evening mountain air so crisp it practically dances where the light of the moon and distant stars touch it and make it shimmer as if it would be alive from the caress of night.

“Definitely.” She stops her determined march right at the parapet and turns, back to the stone: straight, proud, unbending, every inch the noble leader. In the cold light of moon and stars, the pearls of her headdress and mask sparkle like tiny fragments of frozen starlight. “I am merely finding that despite all my determination, currently I am at loss for words.”

“Inquisitor, I…” he starts, standing at attention the way it’s prescribed in the rules of the Order, hands behind his back, chin up, spine rigid, but he can’t finish.

“Cullen,” she says his name with such a quiet intensity that he almost forgets the words about to spill out of his mouth about responsibility, and consequences and resignations. “Fade take it, I _can_ do this,” she whispers with a determination of a born fighter and her jaw tightens at the same time her right hand goes to her side to grip an invisible sword pommel.

 _Here it comes_ , he thinks, and steels himself for the inevitable.

“I find myself thinking about you.” The words rush out of her mouth like a jumbled-up mess of packed snow threatening to grow into an avalanche on a hillside. “All the time, and…”

_Oh. Wait. What?_

_What is she saying?_

“What are you saying?” His voice is hoarse as if he was shouting inwardly for hours. _She is saying the things I wanted to say to her. She is…_

“What do you think I am saying?” Her voice cracks. “What does this sound like? I mean, besides me being utterly undignified, possibly unhinged and perhaps a tad drunk?” There is a tiny tremor in her left hand as she clutches at her right with it. “I am not a poet, or a court-born lady, I am just very good at killing things. I do not have fancy words, but I have courage… and I have pushed this down and away way too long.” There is a snort. “And Maker knows I have had practically endless versions of this particular scene playing out in my head, to be honest.”

_I believe this would be a good time to say something, Rutherford._

“I ah, can’t say I haven’t wondered what I would say to you in this sort of situation,” he offers, and in the next second he really wants to kick himself, hard.

“Oh, _really_?” She sounds angry: those Fade-green eyes practically glitter. “ _Now_ you are telling me.” She leans back a bit, and looks him fully in the eye. “Well, this is _that_ sort of situation, as you so eloquently put it, Commander. What is stopping you?”

_Maker’s Breath. Is she…mad at me because I did not say anything sooner?_

_Because she wanted me to…_

_Because she…_

“You’re the Inquisitor,” he offers, as if that would explain everything, but her short, sharp headshake makes it painfully obvious that he can’t just leave it at that. “We’re at war,” he continues naming his reasons, finding himself stepping closer as if the fury glinting in her eyes would draw him in.

 _Out with it, Rutherford, and make it real this time: she deserves honesty in this just as well as when you are advising her at the War Table or supporting her when she’s breaking down from her battle dreams_.

“I didn’t think it was possible,” he rasps finally, words tumbling out, dragging his dreams, just as ragged, just as damaged beyond repair, with them. “I’m…broken and old beyond the years I’ve lived, with no hopes beyond what possible redemption I might find in seeing the Inquisition succeed and Corypheus defeated. I’m a washed up ex-Templar on his last chance to…do something worthwhile. And you…” He takes that last step and can almost feel the heat from her body against his, and _Maker_ , it’s… “You’re young and brilliant and full of life and beauty and deserve so much more than…”

“And yet: I am still here,” Roxanne whispers. She is so brave and fearless in this as well: the way her eyes shine, the way her hand rises to cradle his cheek—only the slight tremble of her fingers betrays that this is…

“So you are.” His own voice is almost lost in the sound of his heartbeat thundering. He turns his face into her palm, reveling in its touch even through his mask and cannot help but answer its call by curling his fingers into the dip of her waist. “It seems too much to ask…”

And oh, the way she tilts her head back just a fraction of an inch, eyes slightly closed, their fierce gaze softened by long lashes, and the tip of her tongue darting out just a tiny bit, wetting her lips…

 _Want_.

“But I _want_ to…” It’s almost a groan, and the coiling heat in his belly compels him to close that last distance, to finally, finally do what he dreamed about for what seems to be an eternity and Maker, _she’s not moving away_ …

“Commander.” He didn’t hear the tower door opening, he didn’t hear the steps, but now he definitely hears the voice, and that hits him with the force of about ten buckets of ice water.

 _Jim_. The demoted day runner who can’t keep it in his pants so he gets the night duty on a feastday.

“You wanted a copy of Sister Leliana’s report?” _Murder seems to be a very good option right now._

“What.” It is not a question, the way he says it. In fact, it’s barely a human word. With much more like a coughing snarl of a great lion about to end in a roar, Commander Cullen Rutherford steps back and slowly turns his head to fix the unfortunate scout with a stare that…

…is completely wasted on him as he’s busy studying the cover of said report with an ‘I’m on an important mission’ expression.

“Sister Leliana’s report?” Jim repeats, very foolishly stepping closer, eyes still on the papers in his hand. “You wanted them to be delivered ‘without delay?’ “Cullen can practically hear the quotation marks around the words and he feels his lip pull away from his teeth, hands curled into fists as he stalks closer.

The blasted man finally looks up, and Cullen towers over him with the expression of a lethal predator about to strike down an unsuspecting gazelle.

There is a tiny, but significant pause as Jim takes in the sight of his commanding officer about to murder him, and his eyes widen seeing the Herald of Andraste and Her Worship Inquisitor Trevelyan leaning against the parapet, smoothing a loose tendril of her hair behind her ear and trying to look like she’s not even there.

“Or…” Cullen has to give him credit; Jim is able to assess the situation really fast when it’s about life or death. “Or…to your _office_.” He backs away, his face almost as red as Roxanne’s dress. “Right.”

_Is he leaving? He’s leaving._

“Cullen, if you have to…” Roxanne’s voice is soft and resigned, and Cullen would have _none_ of that right now, thank you very much.

He’s done with resigned and timid, in fact. He’s by her side in two long strides, hands coming up whip-fast, one to her hip, the other to her jaw to align her face just _so_. Thoughts don’t enter into this because if they do he wouldn’t have the courage and would find a good reason why he shouldn’t just _kiss_ her, crushed as she is between his body and the parapet’s stone, and with an almost-bruising force too. It pulls her up on her toes and her hands fly to his arms with a small cry that escapes lips smashed against his mouth and teeth: she clearly didn’t expect it to be like this, Fade, _he_ didn’t expect it to be like this either, surely this cannot be what she…

And then (Cullen swears he can feel his life just tilt and spin into a whole different focus the way one feels after breaking the surface of the water, almost-drowning), oh, and _then_ Roxanne’s lips soften under his, and her hands lose their grip on his arms and one sneaks up to drape around his neck. This is not a dream, she _is_ kissing him back and…

Reality reasserts itself as the need for air overrides the certainty of _this is happening,_ and he pulls away from the taste of honey and lavender just enough to be able to see her face.

“I’m sorry…” Of _course_ the first thing he has to say after that is an apology. _Dammit, Rutherford, what’s wrong with you?_ “That was… really nice.”

 _Nice_? _That’s the best you can do, really_? _Get it together, soldier_. The only reason he doesn’t whimper in desperation is that there is, like the most glorious and gorgeous of morning sunrises, a smile on Roxanne’s face, along with that delicate shade of rose petals blooming on her cheeks and one of her fingers pokes him in the chest to emphasize what’s coming next.

“ _That_ was what I wanted,” she says, impossibly and improbably imperious, voice dropping low and every syllable a caress and a promise the way even his most daring dreams couldn’t…

“Oh.” If Corypheus’ dragon drops out of the sky right now, Cullen feels he could just swat it down with one arm. With the one that’s not moving right now with sudden confidence to encircle Roxanne’s waist and pull her to him again, that is.

“Good,” he whispers, reaching for her and apparently she can’t be patient either and tugs his head down, meeting him in the middle. 

Fingers tangled in his hair, her other hand grasping at the fur at his shoulder, long-limbed body flush against him… However much Cullen wishes to take his time and be gentle and savor the moment, it’s impossible because she is all fire and steel, filling his hands and mouth, everything he’s ever dreamed of and more. Her tiny whimper as she opens her mouth under his and lets him deepen the kiss is almost enough to undo all of his restraints, forgetting that they are out in the open, on the battlements of Skyhold for practically anyone looking up from the central courtyard to see…

“Maker!” he gasps as they part for air for the second time. “I can’t…seem to stop kissing you.”

“You don’t have to,” she whispers back, laughter bubbling in her voice and her hand slides into his. “Come on.”

He would go with her anywhere right now, to the Black City if she asks, follow her to blasphemy and fire and damnation for just another taste of her lips and the feel of her body against his…but all she does is hurries along the wall until she reaches the little shelter built into the side of the tower and ducks in, skirts held with one hand, the other in his. It’s almost pitch dark in there, but through the little arrow slit on the wall the stars and the moon dusts in enough light for him to find her again.

 Cullen feels giddy with joy he hasn’t felt in ages, his arms full of her, his heart full of her… His eyes flutter closed as they kiss again, and this time it’s slow and sweet and potent like the mead he had at the feast, and it goes straight to his head just as it did. He sways, body shaking, thoughts in a jumble and very much in need of finding solid ground. He knows there’s a bench here for the soldiers’ comfort such as it is, and stumbles for it. The back of his knees hitting the cold stone, he sits with a thud, and she tumbles into his arms, gorgeous and warm and alive, lips kiss-swollen and pupils dilated, nimble fingers on his face tugging his mask and hers off in one fluid motion, discarding them on the floor.

“ _Oh la_ ,” she says with a breathy sigh, draws her legs up to curl up in his lap and continues kissing him with her lightning-fast ability to master things she’s shown for the first time absolutely in evidence.

_For the first time…_

And that thought right there stops him cold.

“Roxanne…” he says gently, pulling back and clearing his throat, balancing on the knife edge of reason and sanity and using all of his Templar discipline not to give in to the passion that sweeps over him with the strength of a long-dammed river finally free. ‘ _This is going to be difficult to resist’_ does not even begins to express his feelings right now.

“Mmmm,” she hums in answer. Her lips somehow made their way to that sensitive spot just below his ear, and the sound goes straight through him with a white-hot flash of pure, unadulterated desire. His hands flex on her back, pressing her into him... “I am _so_ very proud of you for not murdering Jim,” she mumbles, threading her fingers through his hair and combing it with slow strokes that make him almost purr.

“I’m so very proud of me too, but we need to talk,” he says with great effort, dropping his chin on the top of her head and inhaling slowly, getting his sanity back. “Kissing, too, yes, but also talk,” he adds, because she makes a small protesting noise.

“As long as no words such as ‘duty’, ‘Inquisition’ and ‘should not’ are mentioned, I do not object.” She snuggles into his chest even tighter, wrapping her arms around him with a deep, contended sigh.

“Agreed,” he chuckles, feeling somewhat saner than just seconds ago. “I will also try not to apologize too much.”

“I hope so.” Roxanne pulls back just enough so she can look him into the eyes. “As there is nothing for which to apologize, at least on your part.” She blushes slightly. “As much as I am able to recall, it was me who was somewhat….forthcoming.”

“And may the Maker bless Chasind Sack Mead for that,” Cullen says promptly, trying to keep a serious face, but they both burst out laughing seconds later, because _Andraste’s frilly knickers, it is the truth._

“Bull is incorrigible, I agree,” she says once their chuckles subside, and gently bumps her nose against his, stealing his breath again with the gentleness of the gesture. “But I have not felt this… alive in a long time.”

“Seconded.” He takes a deep breath. “We, however, need to, ah, discuss the need for some measure of…”

“The word ‘restraint’ is also frowned upon tonight, Cullen.” She practically growls as she leans forward and presses tiny, slow and exquisitely lovely kisses on his jawline starting from the chin and moving towards the corner of his mouth where his scar bisects it. “I understand, I believe,” she continues while she does that and Cullen fights for his eyes not to roll back in his head, “ where you wish to take this discussion and while…” she pauses again to explore, just as he dreaded and hoped at the same time, the scar with her lips and the tip of her tongue, “…I am aware of the fact that you are infinitely more experienced in these matters that I, let me assure you, that while I am, in technical terms, a ‘blushing virgin’, that does not mean…”

“Maker’s breath, Roxanne!” He cannot help it; he jerks his head away and stares at her. “That was not…I mean it’s not how I…”

“Then how…?” _Andraste, but she looks young_. “I assume that is what you wished to discuss; what I choose to lay on the table, so to speak, is my willingness to follow your lead and try not to be horribly embarrassed by the fact that I practically jumped you tonight.”

“You…” He darts in and plants a quick kiss on the tip of her nose before he could think himself out of it, eliciting a squeak. “Are. Analyzing. Everything. Again.” Each word is followed by a kiss, and each kiss results in her becoming more and more relaxed in his arms. “Stop. All I wished to say, my one and only lady…” and there she goes absolutely still for a second, her breath hitching, “that should you trust my lead and allow me to…” he slowly, slowly moves from her nose _down_ in a straight line, breathing against her skin, allowing the fire burning in his heart suffuse his words just for a little bit“…believe that I can hope and dream again…”

He pauses for effect as he grazes his teeth against the gorgeously plump flesh of her upper lip, listening to the low moan escaping her, and can’t help but sound a little bit smug as he finishes the sentence:

“…then, indeed, I shall strive to provide… everything… you… wanted.” He tightens his hold on her, not intending to let her out from the circle of his arms now that he found her, now that she’s here, now that she clearly does not want to leave. “And now I think I’ve said everything I wished to discuss.” He slides a hand under the nape of her neck. “Anything to add?”

“Proposal accepted,” she sighs, trembling, but fearless. His lady. His love. His lioness. “Oh. Drat.”

“What is it?”

“I _completely_ forgot your Satinalia gift.” She sounds distraught, and her pout is so very adorable that Cullen decides to remain bold (and it starts to feel almost natural fearfully quickly, he must admit).

“I thought _this_ was my Satinalia gift,” he breathes into her ear, being rewarded with a slight but rather stinging smack at the back of his head.

“You, _ser_ , are incorrigible, and I most assuredly shall not incorrige you in this behavior.” That would be much more convincing if her horrible pun wasn’t followed by a decidedly impish grin, much more fitting for her twenty-two years than her usual aloofness.

“It’s all right,” he says, more seriously, smoothing a loose tendril of her hair back behind her ear and reveling in its silkiness. “I have everything I need, right here.”

 “Good,” she nods, settling herself perfectly against his chest. “Do I get a goodnight kiss, then?”

His laugh is low and wild and free and full of the joy that fills his heart near to bursting. It feels right, and it feels glorious and it is, finally, full of future.

“As you wish,” he murmurs his promise from the morning after she saved his sanity, and proceeds to make good on it.

He cannot stop smiling.


End file.
